


Show me where my armour ends (and where my skin begins)

by SmilinStar



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M, Season 7 flashforward speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 16:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5097509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Because I've seen Hell,” he says, “And it's a world without you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show me where my armour ends (and where my skin begins)

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my offering of a flashforward, three years later fic based off various speculation. Title from the song 'Pluto' by Sleeping at Last.

 

 

\-----

 

 

 

Three words, eight letters.

 

They fall from her mouth. Heavy and final.

 

Her eyes are hard and wet, cheeks flushed and hands gripped into fists so tight, her knuckles are white and she's cutting into skin.

 

Three words, eight letters.

 

Funny how _I love you_ sounds the same as “I hate you.”

 

His head drops, chin falling to his chest as the words cut through the air. The scar under his shirt burns in reminder.

 

He presses his lips together and nods.

 

Looks back at her one last time before he says, “Good.”

 

She turns away then, stares out the window and doesn't watch him leave.

 

 

 

\-----

 

 

She lands her dream job completely on her own merits. However tempting it is to bring out the compulsion, she resists. She has a point to prove and the satisfaction she feels at the end of the day when she leaves that office with her name signed on the dotted line and a handshake is worth it.

 

She'll deny it if ever asked, but it fills the hollowness in her chest only for a fleeting moment. She'll make do with hiding the rest of eternity behind her bright smile and empty laughter, and prays no one will ever notice.

 

It's several months into the job when she meets him.

 

Jet black hair and dark eyes hidden behind a pair of designer frames. He's smart and charming, confident but not overly so. He looks nothing at all like _him,_ and so when he asks her with a hopeful smile whether she'd like to have coffee with him, she takes only the five seconds to remind herself that _he_ isn't coming back for her, and answers, “Yes. Yes I would love to.”

 

Coffee dates turn into dinner dates.

 

And dinner dates end with kisses on a sidewalk and the promise of more when she's ready. He smiles with understanding, and says so earnestly that he'll wait forever for her, and she almost believes him. Almost.

 

Because his forever is not nearly as long as hers.

 

Still, when she calls up Bonnie, and recounts every detail of her new life, the excitement she tries to infuse in every word doesn't quite hit the mark, and her best friend sees right through it.

 

“Caroline,” she says, voice weighed down by exhaustion, “He's human.”

 

“So?”

 

“So,” she sighs, and it's that split second in which she hears her change her mind, give in, stop fighting, “So nothing. I'm happy for you.”

 

She doesn't question it. Years ago she might have.

 

“Thanks.”

 

She says nothing more.

 

“Bonnie?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You okay?”

 

The answer's no. She knows this only because she knows just as well what missing a Salvatore does to you, not that either one of them will admit to it.

 

It sits there, unspoken between them. A topic by silent, mutual agreement to never be broached.

 

“I'm fine.”

 

“Good. That's good.”

 

“Care?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Stay safe.”

 

“You too.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

He's tired.

 

He never thought he could be.

 

One of the perks of being a vampire, never having to feel the effects of ill-health.

 

But he feels it now.

 

Feels it down to his bones, the exhaustion that has sunk into his skin, filled his feet with lead and every footfall is heavy and harder than the one before.

 

He could stop, he knows.

 

He could stop running. Could just let it all end.

 

Let the scar on his chest burn until it bleeds open. Let her find him. Let her drag him back to the deepest pits of hell, because she won't stop. Won't ever stop.

 

And some days he nearly does.

 

Nearly lets it all end as he lays his head down on a pillow, in a run down motel, in the middle of nowhere, and doesn't move a muscle.

 

The scar starts to burn, sometimes in a few hours, sometimes a few days, a constant reminder to keep moving, to keep running. It's her reminder that she isn't that far behind and she won't give up the chase, will run him down to the ends of the Earth until he's up in flames.

 

He stays still, lets it burn for as long as he can.

 

He hears agonised screams in the darkness, and sees nothing but streams of blood.

 

And just when he thinks he's had enough, he'll hear it.

 

Three words, eight letters.

 

_I hate you._

 

And somehow it's enough to get him up and moving. Stuff what little clothes he has back into his duffel, and run all over again.

 

And it doesn't really matter in which direction.

 

Just so long as it's not in hers.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“Your friends,” he says one day, “You don't really speak about them that much.”

 

And maybe it's the inflection at the end, but she thinks it's meant more like a question than a statement and it's not one she wants to answer.

 

“Oh. Well,” she says, taking a sip of her wine and waving it off as casually as she can, “They're all so busy, doing different things, it's hard to keep track.”

 

It's not a lie, exactly.

 

Bonnie's off hunting after yet another mystical relic to try and undo the chaos they unleashed all those months ago.

 

Enzo's actually helping her, and maybe searching for a little redemption along the way.

 

Elena? Still sleeping, blissfully unaware.

 

Damon? Well, he isn't someone she'd call a friend, but still, last she'd heard, he'd opted to dessicate away in a coffin, like the patient soul that he is.

 

Matt? Still defending the denizens of Mystic Falls, or what's left of them.

 

And _him?_ She doesn't know. She doesn't care.

 

It's not exactly dinner table conversation, and so she hopes he doesn't dwell on her vagueness or notice how she changes the topic, and asks instead about his best friend and his new business venture.

 

His eyes sparkle in excitement as he answers her, and not for the first time she finds herself wishing she felt it too.

 

 

\-----

 

 

He doesn't mean to end up here.

 

It's definitely not something he planned.

 

He never even knew that this was where she'd ended up. Not until he spots a flash of blonde across a busy street from the small café window.

 

He thinks he's seeing things. And anyway, the world is full of blondes, what are the chances that that woman is _her._

Every chance apparently.

 

Because she turns around then, digging up a phone from her bag, bringing it to her ear with a smile, and it's a smile he'd recognise anywhere.

 

And it could be something out of a movie. Her eyes meeting his across the road, and how with the pass of a truck she disappears from view and he rushes out there to find her gone, only to turn around and there she is.

 

Except this isn't the movie he's stumbled into.

 

No, because he can only sit there and watch as her smile widens at the sight of a tall, handsome man  approaching her, his own phone by his ear.

 

He can almost hear her laughter as she ends the call.

 

And when the man kisses her, the ghost of her touch burns on his own lips.

 

He drops the ten dollar bill on the table, and runs.

 

_Always running._

 

 

\-----

 

 

“I thought I'd surprise you, take you out for lunch. That's if you're free?”

 

Except, she's not listening.

 

There's a prickle of something at the back of her neck and she finds herself turning away, following the feeling in her gut across the road and to the little café sitting there.

 

“Hey? Caroline? Everything alright?”

 

She shakes her head.

 

Nothing.

 

It's nothing.

 

“Yes, sorry. No, everything's fine. Lunch. Yes, let's do it.”

 

He smiles, “Great.”

 

She threads her arm through his and nods, “Great.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

It's what he'd wanted.

 

It is.

 

And so when he rings up Bonnie after hours of staring at his phone, it's only really to know one thing;

 

“Tell me she's happy.”

 

There's a heavy sigh at the other end of the line.

 

“Tell me,” he says again.

 

And she finally answers.

 

“She's happy.”

 

“Good,” he says, and that's definitely not his voice breaking, “That's good.”

 

_It's not._

 

 

\-----

 

 

It's a few weeks later that she hears the words 'Mystic Falls' again.

 

Her whole body feels like it's turned to ice and the blood flowing through her veins comes to a standstill.

 

She stares up at him from the breakfast table, watching as he does up his tie, seemingly unaware of the effect his question has had.

 

“No,” she answers.

 

He furrows his brow, glasses dropping down the bridge of his nose just a fraction as he does, “But I thought you might want to visit-”

 

“No,” she cuts him off, “I'm never going back there again. I can't.”

 

He stutters out an “Okay,” the vehemence of her answer taking him by surprise.

 

She knows he wants an explanation and it's not one she can give.

 

And so she stands up, takes her plate and glass with her as she dumps it into the sink, walks over to him and plants a kiss on his cheek, “I'll see you after work, okay?”

 

He nods.

 

She leaves, resisting the urge to compel him to forget ever hearing the words 'Mystic Falls' in the first place.

 

 

\-----

 

 

The scar opens up on a Wednesday.

 

And the pain, it's not like before.

 

He hears it like a warning banging against the inside of his skull.

 

_Run_ , it says, followed by mocking laughter, _not that you'll get very far._

 

There are flashes of screaming again, oozing blood and burning flames. It's nothing that hasn't haunted him before, but this time there's something else. Something new.

 

Blue eyes, red rimmed with tears, cracked lips parted in a tortured cry, and skin turning a sickly hue, one shade away from deathly grey.

 

He wakes up panting, his skin covered in a sheen of sweat and the cross on his chest open and bleeding freely.

 

He grabs everything he has and runs, gets in his car and drives.

 

He doesn't even think about it twice when he dials the number.

 

She doesn't pick up.

 

Of course she doesn't.

 

He keeps trying, leaves countless messages, resorts to leaving one with her PA.

 

When he gets no reply to that either, he stops driving and dials Tyler instead.

 

He warns him to run, but it's not like he's been doing anything but.

 

“I'm way ahead of you,” he answers, before telling him to take care of himself and disconnecting the call.

 

He stands there staring back at his car, lighter flicked on his hand, hovering with indecision.

 

It's a split second, and he makes up his mind.

 

Grabbing hold of his journal, filled with memories of her, he steps back and turns away.

 

Doesn't hang around to watch his life burn behind him.

 

He's seen more than enough flames for a lifetime.

 

 

\-----

 

 

She wants to ask what it is about today and blasts from the past.

 

It's another name she hadn't ever wanted to hear again, and here she is, standing there having to hear it all over again.

 

_Stefan Salvatore._

It's like someone's carved the name into her skin, and every time she hears it, thinks it, they run the sharpened, wooden pencil over those lines all over again.

 

She wonders how she's ever meant to heal.

 

Perhaps _never_ is the answer, and the stake that comes flying out of nowhere then, impaling her, renders the answer moot anyway.

 

Her lips come together to form a surprised “oh”, and when the pain starts to kick in, black dots dance in her vision.

 

She sees the vague outline of someone stepping out of the shadows, but fades away before she can put it together.

 

 

\-----

 

 

The laughter ringing in his ears gets louder.

 

He squeezes his eyes tight, hands clutching at the side of his head at the onslaught.

 

It does nothing, of course.

 

It's her way of telling him, he's lost.

 

She has her, and he's next.

 

Except he didn't run this far, this hard for it to end like this.

 

And so he pushes himself back onto his feet and decides it's time his brother got a wake up call and joined the fight.

 

And he knows exactly where he is.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“Who are you?” she asks.

 

She doesn't get an answer.

 

“What do you want with me?”

 

The vervain ropes burn, cutting into her wrists, her ankles.

 

And again she's met with silence.

 

There's a flash of white in the darkness. Her captor's face is hidden in the shadows, but she knows what that flash is.

 

A smile.

 

And her stomach turns with it.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“You woke me up for this?” Damon snipes.

 

Stefan responds with hard eyes and a long stare.

 

“Okay, okay,” Damon relents, hands up in surrender, “I'm sorry. Not the time.”

 

He sighs, dropping the loaded gun from his hand onto the coffee table of yet another questionable motel. “It's not just Caroline, you know that right?”

 

Damon purses his lips.

 

He knows.

 

Everyone. _Everyone_ they know and love is a target.

 

And one of them chooses that moment to knock on their door.

 

Damon's instinct is to instantly grab hold of the nearest weapon, but Stefan shoots him a look as he approaches the door and his eyes narrow in confusion.

 

His complete lack of caution, suspicion is answered seconds later as the door swings open to reveal one Bonnie Bennett, followed closely by Enzo.

 

“Bonnie?”

 

She fixes a cold, icy stare at him, and Stefan can literally feel the chill.

 

“I'm here for Caroline,” she says.

 

“Okay.”

 

“I'm not talking to you,” she adds.

 

There's a flicker of a smirk on Damon's lips, “Well I'm not talking to you.”

 

She narrows her eyes, spits out the words, “I hate you.”

 

Damon shrugs his shoulder, the smirk widening to a grin, “And I hate you.”

 

And Stefan just watches the scene in confusion, shares a glance with Enzo whose expression reads a lot like, _“Don't look at me mate.”_

 

The next thing he knows is the two of them are rushing towards each other, wrapping themselves in a hug so tight, he can't see where one of them starts and the other ends.

 

_Right,_ he thinks with a nod.

 

He's not the only one then who thinks _I hate you_ is code for _I love you._

Although, sadly, he thinks it only works that way for everyone else but him.

 

 

\-----

 

Bait.

 

She's freaking bait.

 

It all starts to come together in bits and pieces.

 

Snippets of conversation filtering through to her fogged up haze of a mind from outside the door. The henchmen who have captured her, tortured her on the orders of whoever the mysterious puppeteer on the other side of the phone line is, talk a lot louder than they're supposed to.

 

She hears them drop the name Salvatore several times and its with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that the pieces start to fall together.

 

The events of the last few months start to rearrange themselves and the frosted glass placed over the top shatters and she's given the gift of clarity.

 

It's tied up with regret and raging anger and it's not a gift at all.

 

It's a curse.

 

Still, after all this, she'll admit it to herself now, she loves him.

 

And she prays he stays away.

 

But then her prayers are never answered, and this isn't any different.

 

It falls quiet outside and something tells her its the calm before the storm.

 

The boom that reverberates around her then, the walls shaking with the force of it and the ringing in her ears tells her she's wrong. It's already here.

 

 

\-----

 

 

They get out of there by the skin of their teeth.

 

He doesn't get to appreciate the fact she's here, with him, alive, until he's put miles between them and _her._

 

She's sandwiched between Bonnie and Enzo in the back seat, still knocked unconscious, head falling against the former's shoulder. He meets Bonnie's gaze in the rear view mirror.

 

She gives nothing away.

 

 

\-----

 

 

When she finally wakes she has no idea where she is.

 

Her head is pounding, and not made any better by the raised voices and incessant arguing.

 

She groans, pushing the heels of her hands into her eyes, “God, you guys, shut up.”

 

It falls silent and reality rushes back to her. The phone calls, the stake and capture, the torture, _the endless torture,_ and then finally, the arrival of the cavalry and their great escape.

 

She sits up on the bed, takes a look around the unfamiliar room and at each and every face that stares back at her.

 

There's an array of emotion on display, and guilt seems to be the uniting, common theme.

 

Her gaze finally lands on him and the familiar green is like a well placed kick to her chest, and it knocks the breath out of her. She instantly snaps her head back around and focusses on someone, anyone, else.

 

“Right,” she says, standing herself up, still a little unsteady and light-headed from the blood loss, “I am going to get myself cleaned up and then one of you is going to fill me in on just what the hell's been going on, okay?”

 

No one dares argue with her.

 

And she's glad for it.

 

She's not sure she'll be able to handle any more half truths and lies.

 

No matter how well-meaning they are.

 

 

\-----

 

 

He sits there quietly. Lets Damon and Bonnie do all the talking.

 

She won't even look at him. Ignores him like a fleck of dust on her jeans, and it shouldn't bother him, but it does.

 

Of course it does.

 

And though she can't seem to look at him, he can do nothing but stare at her. Drink her in like a man dying of thirst.

 

She listens to it all without speaking a word and her expression gives nothing away.

 

When Bonnie finally comes to the end of her explanation, she simply sits there motionless and it's Damon that turns to him, eyebrows raised, before surprising the hell out of everyone and asking;

 

“Blondie? You okay?”

 

She doesn't answer him, gets up instead from her cross-legged position on the bed and starts searching around the room.

 

“Caroline?” Bonnie asks, standing too, “What are you looking for?”

 

“My shoes,” she answers.

 

“Your shoes?”

 

“Am I missing something?” Damon asks.

 

_Yes,_ Stefan thinks. And he knows just what it is.

 

“I have to go back,” she says.

 

And he closes his eyes, waits for the rest of it.

 

“I have to go back for him.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

They all look at her like she's crazy.

 

But she can't just leave him behind like that, not when she's as good as painted a bright red and white target on his chest and he's _human_. He's human. And bullets actually kill, and wooden stakes actually pierce through bloods vessels, and they actually bleed out and _die_. And god, she's so stupid. So stupid.

 

“Caroline-”

 

“God, where's my bag? Where the hell did you put it?”

 

“Caroline-”

 

“She's gonna find him, and she's gonna, oh god-”

 

“Caroline!”

 

There's a hand on her shoulder and the eyes that look down at her are shining bright with understanding and a sadness that claws at her.

 

“Caroline,” he says again, softer this time, “It's okay. I'll go.”

 

Damon is stunned, “What? No!”

 

“He's right,” Bonnie says, “You can't go back. She's still looking for you.”

 

“And what the hell are you even going to do?” Damon says, “Kidnap him and bring him with us? This isn't some leisurely cross country road trip for the fun of it!”

 

He doesn't look back at them as he speaks, his eyes never leave hers, “I'll compel him to leave the city, go somewhere she can't find him.”

 

There's a question in there, and she hears it just fine.

 

_“_ _Is that what you want?”_ he's asking.

 

“Do it,” she answers.

 

He nods.

 

She doesn't hear the outraged protests.

 

And she certainly doesn't watch him leave.

 

She never could.

 

 

\-----

 

 

He wishes he could hate him.

 

But he can't.

 

He's a kindred soul, taken in wholly by Caroline Forbes' light and so entirely in love with every last part of her. He wants her to be happy, and he wants the same.

 

And he can see it. Can see her happiness with this man, and so as much as he wants to hate him. He just can't.

 

And so he does it.

 

Compels him to move away, tells him Caroline will find him when she can, that she loves him and only wants him safe and happy, but now just isn't the time for them. And to trust him, because no one knows that better than him.

 

Before he leaves though, he tells him one last thing;

 

“Thank you.”

 

“For what?” he asks.

 

Stefan doesn't answer, shakes his hand once and then compels him to forget.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Weeks of running turn into months and they become this strange, dysfunctional family of sorts.

 

The dynamic between Bonnie and her men - that's what she's resorted to calling them, this weird triangle of her, Damon and Enzo - is exactly that. Weird.

 

There's some strange tension brewing between the three and if she hadn't known any better, hadn't been fully aware of the kind of hold Elena Gilbert can have on a Salvatore's heart, she would have wagered a significant sum on both vampires being in love with her best friend.

 

And she didn't think she was the only one who thought so.

 

She'd catch glimpses of Stefan staring at them with furrowed brows and a thoughtful expression on his face. It would last only a second before he'd shake it off and pretend he'd imagined it. Sometimes he'd catch her looking at him, and she'd shrug in answer to his unvoiced question. “I have no idea,” she'd say without even opening her mouth.

 

And then of course, there was her and Stefan, and the ghost of them that followed their every move.

 

She understands now why he'd done what he did. Why he'd pushed her away so hard, why he'd pulled that pin in the grenade and let their entire relationship go up in smoke.

 

But still, she can't forgive him.

 

She's not sure she ever can.

 

She feels manipulated, robbed of choices, robbed of the right to decide for herself what's worth the risk and what isn't.

 

And so when he asks her again one day with words reminiscent of a day years ago in an empty hospital hallway;

 

“Do you still hate me?”

 

She doesn't even falter in her answer, “Yes. I hate you.”

 

He purses his lips and nods.

 

“I can live with that,” he says.

 

“Good. I'm glad,” she says in reply, though there's a part of her who really wants to ask instead, “And what can't you live with?”

 

She doesn't ask, she realises, because she's too afraid of his answer.

 

 

\-----

 

 

She hates him.

 

He knows it but it seems he's a glutton for punishment, because he can't not ask her.

 

Every time he thinks she's softening. Every accidental smile they share. Every coordinated eye roll at Damon's smartass mouth or every time a conversation between Damon and Bonnie dissolves into childish bickering. Every breath of relief that's released from their lips as the other walks back through the ever changing front door of yet another cheap motel. He can't help himself, he has to ask her.

 

“Do you still hate me?”

 

She always answers “Yes” and he always nods back “Good.”

 

She never says anything more until one day she snaps out in frustration, _“Why?”_

 

He takes a moment before answering.

 

“Because I've seen Hell,” he says, “And it's a world without you.”

 

He never asks her again after that.

 

 

\-----

 

 

She hears from Bonnie what happened and storms into his room without knocking.

 

She almost turns back around at the sight of him standing there shirtless, but instead tries to tame the blush on her cheeks and asks him, “What the hell happened?” Her voice remains remarkably calm given what she knows, but she wants to hear the words from his own mouth.

 

“It's nothing,” he says, not looking up at her as he smothers a salve over the burns on his torso.

 

She folds her arms across her chest, and states icily, “Nothing.”

 

He looks up at her, “So maybe we were building a bomb, because our weapons store is dwindling, and I might have forgotten to check the safety.”

 

She storms forwards toward him, grabs hold of the cooling lotion and spins him around, before literally slapping it on over the burns on his back that he had failed to reach, “Of all the dim-witted, careless, stupid things . . . I'd expect this from Damon, but you . . .”

 

She grasps hold of his shoulders and spins him around to face her, ignores the hiss of pain and tends to the wounds on his chest, as she continues ranting, “You know you don't heal as fast any more, not with that damned scar of the damned, literally.

 

“Would it kill you to be careful?”

 

She feels it then, a huff of hot air blowing the hair falling across her cheek in laughter, and the warmth of it hitting her skin brings with it the realisation of just how close he is.

 

She looks up then, and wishes she hadn't.

 

He's staring down at her, a soft smile playing on his lips and he hasn't looked at her like that in so long.

 

And just like that she's melting away to three years previously, to a time when she'd thought she'd found her forever in his arms, and she could never fathom how much their lives would change.

 

His eyes drop to her lips, and her breath lodges in her throat.

 

He lifts a hand then, to caress her cheek, curl her hair away, she never finds out which, because she flinches away from his touch and watches his face fall.

 

“Sorry,” he says, voice thick and heavy.

 

“It's okay.”

 

She can't bring herself to look back at him as she hands him the bottle, “Just um, make sure you change the dressings every day, and you'll be fine.”

 

He nods.

 

She flees.

 

 

\-----

 

 

He begins to hope.

 

And it's a dangerous thing.

 

Although she's still self-conscious of her smiles, the frequency of them around him starts to increase. She even holds them for longer.

 

She doesn't make excuses to leave every time they're stuck together, or if Damon and Enzo disappear off in search of blood bags and ammunition and it's just her and Bonnie left by his side.

 

He begins to hope that forgiveness is no longer an impossibility.

 

He begins to hope that one day, maybe.

 

Hope taunts him with laughter one evening, a hand resting on his arm, brushing the hairs that stand on end and tapping out the beat of his pulse.

 

Hope is the look in her eyes then when she looks up at him and can't look away.

 

Hope is the press of her lips against his, and the sigh she lets go of with the drop of her forehead against his.

 

And hope is gone in the whisper of words. Just two.

 

And the bang of the door as she runs away.

 

It's gone completely in the bright light of day when she says she can't remember a thing from the night before and her eyes say the same.

 

_I'm sorry._

\-----

She pretends she's forgotten.

 

It's the only thing she can do, because the guilt threatens to overwhelm her.

 

Guilt tears at her, because she hasn't forgotten him. No.

 

He's still out there waiting for her to come back.

 

And she's not naïve, can't ignore it any longer, because Stefan's waiting too.

 

She knows it now, he always has been.

 

 

\-----

 

 

He reminds himself that she hates him.

 

She's in love with another man.

 

And they can't go back, no matter how much he wants to.

 

And although he knows he deserves this, Damon seems to be the only person who doesn't think so.

 

“Stop torturing yourself, brother,” he says one day.

 

He looks away from the door, the door through which she'd left the room ages ago, and turns towards him.

 

He shakes his head, lets out a small hopeless laugh which says it all, really.

 

“You're right,” he says after a long moment.

 

Damon frowns, “I am?”

 

“Yeah,” he breathes out, “You are. I need to let it go.”

 

And by _it,_ he means _her._

 

 

 

\-----

 

 

He starts avoiding her.

 

And he isn't even subtle about it.

 

It hurts more than it should.

 

If anything, he's doing her a favour, and she has to remind herself of this, time and time again.

 

And the best way to forget, she finds, is throwing herself head first into helping the others find a way out of this mess.

 

Because she's tired of running now.

 

They all are.

 

 

 

 

\-----

 

 

Finally, they make a breakthrough.

 

He's not sure how long it's been.

 

How many days, weeks, months.

 

Years.

 

It's been years.

 

But _finally_ , they think they've found a way. Or more like Bonnie's found a way, because who else could?

 

When she comes bursting into their motel room, eyes burning bright, he knows it's time.

 

The look on Damon's face as he grabs hold of her cheeks and stares back in wonder is a look he recognises very well. He just hopes his brother does too, sooner rather than later.

 

When they break the news to Caroline, she's quiet. Too quiet.

 

The others leave the room, go off to pack, get themselves ready for the final battle of a war they hadn't known they were fighting.

 

It's been a long time since they'd been left in a room together, alone.

 

She surprises him first by taking a seat at the foot of his bed. Still she hasn't spoken a word, simply sits there and stares at her hands.

 

“Caroline?”

 

She says nothing.

 

He takes the spot beside her, reaches out and takes her hand in his.

 

It's enough to break the spell.

 

She turns to look at him, “What if-”

 

He cuts her off, “It's going to work Caroline. I know it is.”

 

“You don't know that.”

 

His thumb runs over her skin, and he worries she'll pull away at any moment.

 

“Maybe you just need to believe that it will.”

 

There's the faintest of smiles on her lips as she nods.

 

“Okay.”

 

And then he's not sure why he says it, but he does, “I'll get you back to him, I promise.”

 

She pulls her hand from his grasp and smiles sadly, “I know.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

Except, she doesn't know.

 

Doesn't know that she does want to go back to him.

 

Because maybe, just maybe, she wants to _stay._

 

 

\-----

 

 

The fight ends up being bloody and long, and draining.

 

He doesn't know what's happening, doesn't know who's winning.

 

It certainly doesn't feel like it's him though.

 

Not with the piece of wood stuck in his chest, scraping past his heart with every breath. Not to mention every other torn bit of skin that just isn't healing.

 

And that's how she finds him, bleeding out in the woods in the middle of nowhere. The panicked, “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” that leaves her lips as she runs her hands all over him, trying to take stock of all his injuries, has him reaching out a hand in an effort to soothe.

 

“It's okay,” he tells her, “I'm okay.”

 

She shakes her head in disbelief, and her face may be wet with tears or blood, but he can't really tell in this darkness.

 

“Ask me again,” she says then, voice urgent, and desperate, like maybe they won't ever get the chance again. “Ask me.”

 

And he knows, knows what it is she's asking for, and hope blooms once more.

 

It's enough for him to forget the wound on his chest is burning and bleeding, and just won't stop.

 

He forces the words out, eyes bright and clear despite the pain.

 

“Do you still hate me?” he chokes out.

 

She answers him with the press of her lips against his, hands clutching the back of his head, fingers running through his hair and she doesn't let go once.

 

She breathes the words into him as he breathes out his last.

_I love you._

 

 

\-----

\-----

\-----

 

 

She finds him again, months later.

 

He's still handsome and charming, and still rocking a pair of glasses.

 

She taps on the plastic frame, “I like these,” she says.

 

“Caroline?” he asks, like he can't believe it's her.

 

“Yeah,” she smiles through the tears, “It's me.”

 

“You came back.”

 

She bites on her lip. “I did, but,” and she takes a deep, steadying breath in, “I'm not staying.”

 

He looks confused, lost, and so she takes off his glasses and holds his face in her hands and compels it all away.

 

Sets him free.

 

It hurts more than she thought it would.

 

 

\-----

 

 

“You okay?” he asks her later.

 

She presses a hand to his chest, just over the fading remains of a scar that hasn't burned in months, that'll never open again, and smiles.

 

“Yeah,” she nods, “I'm with you.”

 

 

 

 

**End.**  

 

 

 


End file.
